The motorway side hotels became stranger and stranger as the summer went on; some in grand listed buildings with stained glass windows, but the rooms uncomfortably large emanating that of a hospital room, the heavy wearing in of isolated spots on the cheap blue carpet, and a coffee spill- or a blood stain? under the sink. What had happened in this room? Something had happened. Or the Holiday Inn, where I was given 3 dressed beds pushed together, each of a different height and size. One night while travelling back from work I wasn't aware we were supposed to have checked out that morning, and I walked in to the room I had been staying, my key card still working, to a whole family of 7 sitting on the bed eating sandwiches, where I had been doing the exact same 14 hours earlier.
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Layover spaces. I couldn't help but think about what these walls had seen. Particularly with the motorway side hotels, a quick pitt-stop, a fast turn over, a murder, a seedy night, or just a bed to crash on for the family.
I continued to find myself in what I felt were weirdly intimate spaces, doing house viewings in depressingly beige unoccupied flats, or walking in to hotels I passed by in London, pretending to stay there and ending up in empty function rooms, holding spaces for kids beauty pageants and weddings. Empty dance floors cornered off in the middle of the room, with corporate chairs and office ceilings
